bezoar
by The Resurrection 3D
Summary: Instead of his giant robot, Tord gets the flu, and Tom tries to get even. Rated T for language and sexual humor.


Tom imagines Edd briefly as a crazy old billionaire placing a tiger and a grizzly in the same room, one slab of meat in the middle. There's really no other explanation for why Edd is shoving the tray of reheated miso soup into his hands.

"Why do I have to do it again?" Tom asks Edd's back as he grabs a handful of napkins- they ran out of tissues for Tord sometime yesterday - and plops them down besides the bowl and spoon. Edd's face contorts in pain, the kind that says __Because I walked in on him masturbating, and if I have to suffer, then so do you, __but instead Edd merely says over the reoccurring cacophony of Tord's coughing,

"Because I've done everything else. His fever broke this morning, you'll be fine. Now go."

Tom and Edd stand there for a moment, eyes hard. Edd throws his hand behind him, snapping his fingers once, twice. He cocks his head to Matt sitting on the new couch Tord's stupid little cubes had made, flipping through a magazine, and seethes through gritted teeth,__"Matt, for fuck's sake."__

Matt looks up. "OH!" He pats himself, the cushions, until he finds a pair of scissors and a ripped-edge page of a checkered guitar suspiciously like Susan, cutting crookedly into its neck.

Tom's dark hands tighten on the tray. He barks, "Fine, whatever, but if he pukes on me I'm putting all your heads on pikes."

* * *

He does not walk in on Tord masturbating. His laptop is balanced on one leg and a notebook the other, bruised eyes darting between them as he fills the page with his left-handed demon scrawl. There are screams from the computer, sure, but the sounds of sea shanties confirm it's just some installment of __ Insane Zombie Pirates From Hell ___-_\- one of the early ones, Tom would know it anywhere. It's been a few days since Tord returned, all smiles and sweet words, (four, but Tom hasn't been counting) but he still hasn't unpacked, not even to change out Tom's blue counterpane.

Tord doesn't look up as Tom marches in, the wind of him kicking open the door sending balls of tissues flying off the bed.

"Soup time, bitch," Tom calls, to which Tord doesn't look away from his screen, slowly, hypnotically plugging in keys. He gestures limp-wristed to the end of his bed, tries to speak, but all that comes out is another round of hoarse coughs.

__"Fuck," __Tord moans, voice like he's been smoking two packs a day since he popped into the world. "You weren't joking about the whole mayocide thing."

Ah, yeah, that - when Tord had first fallen ill Friday night, feverish and coughing until he puked up buckets of phlegm, Tom had claimed Tord as his hapless patient zero for the virus that would finally exterminate the whites.

Serves him right for stealing his room.

"I've been using your toothbrush to clean the toilet, too," Tom adds. "I also pissed in this," as he sets the tray down on Tord's notebook; "You're welcome."

Tord grabs the bowl with both hands and tips his head back, gulping it down so fast rivers drip down both sides of his chin. Those grey eyes Tom hasn't seen in so many years look up at him with cool boredom, even as his mouth curls up into a smug smile. A loud lip smack; "Scrumptious."

For some reason, it reminds him of a Christmas.

He punches Tord in the face.

* * *

When Tord pins him down by the shoulders, Tom is back on the playground in primary school, being held down by his older brother, by Edd, by Tord as they dangle fat globs of spittle over his face - but whether Tord was going to retract it at the last second or let it fall, he doesn't get to find out, because Tord's labored breathing sets him off on another coughing fit, rolling off just as Tom winds his knee back for a good crotch-shot.

Tom realizes he's laughing, and Tord is too, even though it sounds like it's ripping his throat and lungs to shreds. Eventually the laughter stops as Tord starts making desperate grabbing motions behind himself, other hand clamped over his mouth, so Tom hands Tord his old wastebasket from in-between his bed and his nightstand, looking away.

Over as soon as it begins, but Tord's head still hangs there, cradling the basket between his knees. His knuckles grip the rim bone-white; the hairs along his arms stand at attention.

Whenever Tom or one of his brothers was sick, his grandmother would take them into the bathroom and crank the shower onto the hottest setting, letting the air fill with steam as she pounded on their backs.

"You know," Tom says instead. "When you woke yourself up coughing last night, I nearly started jacking off because your misery was just so delicious."

A chuckle strangled into a gag. "Why didn't you?" Tord asks, voice playful and razor-thin.

"You're not that hot."

Tord swallows thickly. "Did you at least get a chub?"

Tom pushes himself off the ground as Edd calls__You guys kill each other yet?__from down the hall. "What did I just say."

Tom starts towards the door, hand on the frame when Tord asks, "You really think that lowly of me?"

__Bitch, really? __Tom twists his face to say.

Tord only manages to get up onto his hands before he's doubling over again, hugging the basket, and a part of Tom wonders if he shouldn't try smacking him between the shoulder blades or getting the humidifier from Matt's room or something, but before he can decide Tord lifts his head up and says, "Well, remember when we went on that road trip after graduation, and you were sick and throwing up the entire weekend?"

Tom nods; the other three had drawn straws for who would share a room with him, and Tord had drawn the longest up until Edd cut it in half.

"Well, every time you started hurling I would take the plastic sporks that came with our take-out and twist them into my nipples. I just wanted you to know."

"Sexy." Tom nods curtly, as though Tord hadn't told him nearly the same exact joke back when it was happening.

More things change, more they stay the same, right?

Tord nods back. "Yeah."

Late on the first night, after it had technically passed into the second morning, Tord had entered the tiny motel bathroom with a cold bottle of water and an even colder washcloth, placing the latter on the back of Tom's neck as he clutched the porcelain and groaned like he'd been gargling battery acid.

Tord had timidly placed his hand on Tom's back, gently rubbing along his shoulders. __Just breathe, Thomas___, _the first words he'd heard in hours.

Tord's pallid face breaks into that smile again, emotion finally crawling into his eyes. He opens his mouth, but can't get anything out before he's coughing wetly into his elbow, holding up a finger to make Tom wait.

Tom realizes Tord still hasn't told any of them what exactly he was doing in the big city all this time.

Tom smacks the door frame, a brief "Anyway" as he walks out, swallowing words that go down with all the ease of a shard of jagged glass.


End file.
